


For want of a book

by WilwyWaylan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hogwarts AU, M/M, but a little, dorks being dorks, not quite shippy, very I'm having fun :D, very self-indulgent, very stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 14:03:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18757906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilwyWaylan/pseuds/WilwyWaylan
Summary: Bahorel needs a book from the library. Bahorel certainly does not need to see Feuilly. Sadly, it seems that you can find way more redheads than the book you need in that library...





	For want of a book

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the same-prompt challenge, with "I'm afraid you're going to have to carry me".

It's not very usual for Bahorel to find himself in the library. Okay, that doesn't mean he's ignorant or stupid, of course not. Some papers require an extended use of books, especially those pesky potions ones that had him slave on his parchment until the small hours of the morning, with the only company of a dying fire in the common room. But when he has the opportunity of not spending his time surrounded by dusty books, he takes it wholeheartly and grabs his broom to go and fly as much as he can. Nothing like the wind going through his hair and the feeling of freedom instead of being stuck inside.

But right now, sadly, he has one of those papers looming over his head. He's not late, not yet, but he's only half-done, and he can't remember to save his life what the effects of mandragora are. So as soon as he's done with his breakfast, he makes his way to the library, dragging his feet all the way. He tries not to look outside, at the sky so perfectly blue it looks painted on. It's a perfect day to fly, with a hint of breeze, and he can't go and enjoy it. There are even birds chirping outside and his fingers start to itch, he can almost feel the wood of his broom under his fingers, the wind going through his hair, and the sun, warmer and warmer as he goes higher....

The library door is cold and hard, breaking his reverie in little pieces. He knows he has to push it, set himself to work, kick his own ass, or he's going to fail that class and maybe his whole year, and he'll never hear the end of it. Not only his parents will be on his case day and night, but Feuilly will probably gloat like there's no tomorrow. Damn squirrel, with his brain full of stuff that breezes through exams like it's nothing while Bahorel barely passes. And of course he flaunts it. More or less. At least that's how Bahorel sees it, and he's sure he's right, Feuilly likes to rub in his face how he's more clever than him. Of course, Bahorel retaliates by rubbing in his face how Feuilly is as graceful as a log when put on a broom, and he can't get higher than three inches. Low blow, maybe, but he started it. Maybe. He doesn't remember, really. After all, it goes all the way back to their first year ; they started fighting for a stupid reason, and never really stopped.

Bahorel finds himself a spot at the end of one of the long tables, put down his stuff, and sits. And stares at the table. And stares. He knows he doesn't have all day, that he'll have to leave soon for dinner, and then his other homework (because of course, he does have other homework that he left on the side for too long, and will probably take out a huge chunk of his night), but it still takes him at least five minutes just to start. And he stops again after only a few words. No matter how hard he tries, he can't recall any useful information. They went over it during several lessons, but he must have zoned out. As he always does. What can he say, potions isn't really his forte.

But he needs a book, to help him. Which means getting up, finding where the books about the use of mandragora are, then localizing the right one that may give him the informations he needs, and _then_ finding the right pages, and _then_ arranging them in something vaguely coherant, and _then_.... Just thinking of it exhausts him, and he almost leaves, mandragora be damned. But he can't, not when his whole year hangs in the balance. So he slowly gets up and makes his way to the shelves.

He watches them intently, trying to see if there's not a glowing "Mandragora this way" sign somewhere that could guide him to the book he needs. But besides a few half-erased words painted here and there, no sign, no indication, nothing. He's alone to face this task. The novels he used to read as a kid come to his mind ; they were rife with explorators travelling to dangerous countries, and all those adventurers always used a native to guide them through the myriads of dangers awaiting them. He should have brought a native too, grab the nearest Ravenclaw and force them to come with him.

His mind toying with the idea of making his Ravenclaw guide carry his backpack, Bahorel enters book territory. And immediatly gets lost. There's no indication inside, just rows and rows and rows of leather-bound books, pressed together so tight you could barely pull them out without bringing all of them down on you. It's dark between them ; the few lanterns supposed to light the room are hanged way too high to effectively dispell the darkness accumulating between the high shelves. The more Bahorel advances, the more the atmosphere weights on him. The walls formed by the books seem to close on him, the thick air getting even thicker with the dust floating in the dying glow of the lamps. The leather swallows each and every sound, and the silence is almost deafening. Bahorel could be lost in the maze, hours from the nearest source of light, of air, of freedom... and he wouldn't know.

He turns left, hoping for an opening, or a map, something, but there are only more rows of books. He glances at his left, to see if he's getting closer from the shelf he needs. But the books seem to be about history ("The Great Goblin War of 1812", "Wands through Time" and "Influences of the Muggle Revolution on Laws and Regulations of the Wizarding World", who could read that ?). The ones on his right cover what seems to be Care for Magical Creatures, or at least that's what he thinks "Baby Dragons of Slovenia" and "Crests : an unknown menagerie" mean. But who knows. The only thing _he_ knows is that he'll never find what he's looking for, and bonus, he'll probably stay here forever, unable to find his way, cursed to stay among the books until he dies and his skeleton turns to dust.

He's starting to think that maybe, he should swallow his damn pride and ask someone for help, maybe those first years looking at him and whispering, when he hears voices just across the corner. And not just some voices, but at least one he recognizes, sadly. Not even here is he free from Feuilly and his squirelly nuisance. Well, it's logical, since he's a Ravenclaw and therefore the most likely place when one could find them is in the library. But still, can't he really come here without having to endure his presence ? But the second voice is Jehan's, and Bahorel likes Jehan. A lot, in fact. He's smart, he's nice, he's not a know-it-all. And he has gorgeous eyes and long, beautiful hair that Bahorel would like to slide his fingers into, not that it plays a role.

He turns the corner and here they are, standing in front of a shelf, looking up. A lantern is shining on Jehan's beautiful hair, and Feuilly's too, bathing it in gold. It looks soft, on both of them, which is weird because Bahorel never thinks about Feuilly's hair. But right now, while they are standing side by side, they look strangely alike, with the same copper hair that curl at the ends and freckles dusting their faces and hands, and they are even wearing the same Muggle plaid shirts in gaudy colors. Almost like twins. Or siblings of different age, because Jehan is almost as tall as Bahorel.

\- Hey nerds.

At the sound of his voice, Feuilly jumps and spins, and glares at him like he's trying to chase him away by the sole force of his will. Jehan just turns and smiles.

\- Hello, Bahorel. What are you doing here ?

Bahorel bites down on the scathy answer, because it's Jehan and you don't want to make Jehan cry, even if the question is stupid. Some people say it brings bad luck. So he just shrugs and answers :

\- Looking for a book, as you can see. You ?

\- What do you think ? Feuilly says, through gritted teeth.

\- Don't let politeness strangle you on the way out, Squirrel.

Feuilly scowls and growls, but doesn't utter another word. Jehan answers for him :

\- We need a book about the emergence of tranformation potions during the XIXe century and how they were outlawed.

\- And what do you need that for, exactly ?

\- Just for our culture, Jehan smiles sweetly.

Bahorel is not reassured in the least by that smile, but he decides not to dwell on it.

\- Oh well... maybe it should be somewhere around ? he says, gesturing vaguely towards the shelf.

Probably in the magical land of books that perfectly fit what you're looking for, he muses, trying not to laugh at "magical land" too much. But count on those nerds to find the weirdest books on this library.

\- oh, it's not a problem, Jehan explains. We've already found it. But we have a small problem. It's there.

He points upwards. Bahorel follows his gesture, but all he can see is another row of books, undiscernable from the others he's seen on his way in.

\- That one, Jehan insists. The red one.

There are several red ones, but the one that he needs is probably the one sitting a good two meters above their heads. Of course.

\- Can't you just... accio it ?

\- Wands don't work in the library, Feuilly answers in a tone showing clearly that he considers Bahorel an idiot.

\- So what, Squirrel ? Climb.

Feuilly glares at hims and turns away. For a second, Bahorel thinks that Jehan is going to scold him, but he just frowns slightly.

\- We tried.... well, not climbing, of course, but I tried helping Feuilly up, and we...

His voice trails off.

\- It failed ? Bahorel offers.

Feuilly glances at him, and Bahorel notices the bruise on his cheek.

\- Go on, laugh, the redhead growls.

Bahorel shrugs. There's a joke all ready about squirrels and falling from a tree that offers itself to him, but strangely, he doesn't really feel like taking it. Instead, he joins them, fists planted on his hips, and cranes his neck to look at the book too. It's innocent-looking, just standing on its shelf like any other book. It's even jutting a little, at least an inch, almost calling to be grabbed. Sadly, it's still way up above, at least one meter above Bahorel's grasp, if not more.

\- Isn't there a damn ladder in that place ? he mutters.

\- We tried to find one, Jehan answers, mimicking his posture. We couldn't find one.

\- And trying to climb...

\- Doesn't work, Feuilly completes. We tried. Everything.

\- You tried to climb the shelf, you ? Bahorel asks, a little amused.

Feuilly shrugs, but there's the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He's proud of himself for trying to climb the shelf. And here, Bahorel always thought he was way too respectful and well-behaved (but he'd rather use the word "uptight") to do something that was forbidden by the rules. And here he is, destroying his illusions. Bahorel tries not to smile too broadly at the idea of scrawny Feuilly trying to climb the shelves like a giant ladder. Instead, he looks at the book again.

\- You know what ? he suddenly says. I'm going to be a good dude and help you.

Both redheads turn to look at him. Jehan seems curious, Feuilly vaguely hostile.

\- And how you're gonna do that ?

\- I'm gonna lift you.

Feuilly immediatly takes a step back.

\- You're going to what ?

\- C'mon, Squirrel, don't be shy. Or are you afraid ?

The accusation hits home. Feuilly may be level-headed most of the time, but after several years, Bahorel knows how to push his buttons. And an accusation of cowardice, from his archenemy, is the perfect starter. He marches to Bahorel, until they are almost chest to chest, looks straight in his eyes. The air gets thicker suddenly, and Bahorel finds out breathing has become harder suddenly. He tries not to show it on his face, and it's not easy, with Feuilly's eyes so close. They are icy, they are burning, they are huge, with little shards of gold shining in the warm brown, and Bahorel can feel the heat slowly climbing on his cheeks. He blesses the darkness that hides his blushing.

\- So, Squirrel, he says, noticing with a hint of satisfaction that his voice isn't cracking.

\- Lift me, is the simple answer.

Bahorel wants to discuss, bites back that he doesn't take orders, but he figures that it may not be a good idea. He bends down instead, interlaces his fingers to make a footstand. Feuilly watches him silently for a moment, probably trying to figure if it's a trap or a real offer, and if Bahorel is not going to propel him over his head.

Finally, he puts his foot in Bahorel's hands. Bahorel lifts him with ease, giving him the height he needs to reach the book.... almost. His fingers stop at a few centimeters.

\- Godda.... Higher. Please, he adds like an afterthought.

\- Can't. You're heavier than you look.

\- Ha, ha. Very funny.

\- I know.

Bahorel tries lifting him higher, but his arms start protesting. Good, now he's going to be sore too. He manages to give him two centimeters more. Feuilly stretches, the points of his shoes digging in Bahorel's palms. Painfully. He should have asked him to step on his shoulders. It would probably hurt less.

Jehan walks to him, and puts his hands under Bahorel's. With a smile, he pushes upwards, taking a little bit of the weight from his arms. Bahorel welcomes the relief with a sigh. They only won a little bit of height, but it seems to do the trick. Feuilly's fingers barely brush the book, but it's enough to hook one under the leather and pull.

The book doesn't move. Of course they are way too squeezed on that shelf, and it doesn't slide out easily. Feuilly pulls, and pulls again. Finally, a pull harder than the others is enough to dislodge it. But it's enough to break Feuilly's balance too. He waves his arms around, tries to grasp the shelf to break his fall, and he would certainly have managed if he was standing on a regular stool. But Bahorel's hands don't offer a regular support, and he falls down. Bahorel notices something is wrong when Feuilly starts stomping on his hands, but it happens too fast for him to do anything else than hold his arms out in an awkward fashion and brace himself.

He kind of catches Feuilly, without breaking both arms, which is a feat. But the collision sends him to the floor, hard enough to take his breath away. And one half-second later, Feuilly falls on him, effectively squeezing all the remaning air out of his lungs. He expects the book to smack him on the face, or maybe the whole shelf to fall on them, or hell, even the ground swallowing them both. But nothing moves and the world doesn't end, and no one comes to expel them on the spot for damaging a precious book. The only thing he can hear is Jehan's hurried step besides him.

He opens his eyes and gets up on his elbows. His ribs protest, but nothing seems too hurt around there. He'll probably have a bruise or two to remember this adventure. Maybe more since he can't breathe properly. But that's due to Feuilly still laying on top of him. Bahorel wants to push him away, but Jehan is already kneeling beside them, his brows furrowed in worry, and he doesn't want to look like a brute by slamming Feuilly head first in a shelf.

Feuilly sits up, apparently unaware that he's using Bahorel as a giant cushion, then goes to get up. And immediatly falls back holding his leg, with a scream of pain that Bahorel echoes because he just fell down on his stomach again and that damn squirell is h _eavy_. Jehan manoeuvres his friend around until he's sitting on the floor, then gently unties the fingers knot around Feuilly's ankle. He moves it gently, and Feuilly gasps in pain.

\- I think it's twisted, he finally says. Did you land on it ?

\- It hit the shelf, I think, Feuilly answers.

\- Do you think you can walk ?

Feuilly tries to get up again, falls down again, luckily not on Bahorel anymore.

\- No, he deadpans. I don't think so.

They both turn to Bahorel, who has sat up by now and is watching them. He doesn't know why he's staying, it's not as if they still need him, since the book came down with Feuilly. He should leave, go and do something interesting like finding his own book, and still he's sitting there. But it seems they are not down with him.

\- I'm afraid you're going to have to carry me.

Bahorel is so stumped by his gall that it takes him two seconds to react.

\- You want me to what ?

\- To carry me. I can't walk.

\- And why ?

He's already ready to fight back the accusations, to point that Feuilly wanted that damn book and some help and he got both, and he even caught him, it's not his fault he hit his stupid foot. In fact, he probably even saved his life. So why should he repay him ? But Feuilly simply nods towards Jehan.

\- Jehan can't carry me and the books and the bags at the same time.

Oh. It's logical. Very logical. And so not agressive that Bahorel can't really refuse. Of course Jehan can't. He may be tall, and not weak at all despite being built like a twig, but he still has only two arms. Bahorel muses about it for an instant. Feuilly and him have been bickering and fighting for years, there's no reason he should help him. On the other hand, he did ask. Not really politly, but at least he didn't swear. And Jehan is watching him with those impossibly huge, mismatched eyes, and he can't really say no now, does he ? He kneels down beside Feuilly and mutters more than he says outright :

\- Go on, climb.

Feuilly doesn't move.

\- I'm not carrying you as a princess, just so you know. So climb.

The two redheads look at each other, and seem to decide that there's nothing wrong there. Feuilly finally moves, loops his arms around Bahorel's neck. It takes a minute to move him around without jostling his foot too much, but soon, he's perched on his back. Jehan grabs the book, their bags, and away they go.

The way to the Ravenclaw dormitory is quite long, and if Bahorel doesn't have too much trouble carrying Feuilly because, let's face it, he's not _that_  heavy, it gives people far too much time to stare. And they do stare. Of course, they are probably wondering why he's carrying his archrival on his back and why his archrival is cuddling him. Because Feuilly is really, currently, actually _cuddling_  him. He's holding Bahorel tighter than needed, his head is resting in the crook of Bahorel's neck, his hair tickling his neck, in a way that's absolutly _not_  normal for someone who hates him with the burning passion of a few hundred suns. Bahorel should dump him on the floor, throw him away and let him deal with his leg and his book and the rest. But he doesn't. Instead, he just keeps walking, hoisting Feuilly a little higher. He's rewarded by the arms around his shoulders tightening a little.

Finally, after a flight of stairs that seems to take at least an hour to climb without falling over, Jehan gives the password, and they can make their way to their room. Bahorel is almost sure that Feuilly has fallen asleep on him. But no, he stirs when they reach his bed (it's his bed, Bahorel is sure, you just need to look at all the books scattered around, and the drawing tools stacked on the nightstand). Bahorel puts him down as gently as possible. Immediatly, Jehan fusses around him, fluffying the pillows, finding a cushion for his ankle and arranging his books and notepads around him. Finally, he settles beside him, his own notebook on his lap.

Bahorel just watches them. There's a pinch of something around his stomach, he doesn't really know what, and he's not sure he wants to look at it closely. Maybe it's jealousy rearing its ugly head at the sight of Jehan being so comfortable with each other. Or maybe it's due to seeing them together, at ease, caught in their little world of books and learning and knowledge, where he doesn't belong. They don't need him anymore. Or maybe it's just seeing them like that. There's something in the air, something heavy that makes it difficult to breathe. Like when Feuilly was looking at him, so close, but the feeling is stronger, ten times stronger. Suddenly, everything is so precise, turning into a painting, a carving, in so much detail that jumps at his face, pervasive, overwhelming, occulting everything. The light is so blinding, highlighting everything in sharp yellow, drowning the rest in thick shadows, dancing on their hair, turning it in short scraps or long strings of copper and gold. He can't move, he can't breath, and he can't look away from them.

Jehan looks up at him and smiles, and the spell is broken. Except that Bahorel's heart is still jumping wildly, and it's even worse when Feuilly looks at him too.

\- So, guys, he tries, hoping that his voice doesn't sound too weak. I'll leave you to your books.

Good. Just hightail out of here before you do something stupid.

\- Thanks, Feuilly mutters. For the lift. I owe you one.

\- Don't mention it.

\- Sure ? Jehan asks. Because we stole your time, took you away from the library, and you were nice enough to help us. If we can do something, you just have to ask.

Bahorel wants to play it cool, but that never did anything good for his grades. So he explains :

\- In fact, I may need a book. About mandragoras. For a paper. I went to the library for one, but I couldn't find any. And then...

\- And then we happened, Feuilly completes. Bring the paper. What ? he asks when Bahorel doesn't move. Do I have to take it myself ?

\- I just need a book. I'm sure Jehan has one. (Jehan nods.)

\- Sure. And your grades are stellar, we all know that. Come on. We'll help.

Bahorel wants to argue that for someone who hates him, Feuilly sure knows a lot about his grades. But as much as he doesn't want to admit it, he needs help. And he'd be foolish to not accept it when it's so freely given. So he takes his own bag and makes himself confortable. It takes a bit of adjustement, because as large as their beds are, they are still a bit too tight for two tall boys and an average one. At the end, they have gathered at least ten pillows on the bed, Feuilly is almost seated on Jehan, and his ankle is now mysteriously resting on Bahorel's leg. Jehan is passing around cups of tea he pulled out from seemingly nowhere. Books are open everywhere and they all have rolls of parchment on their laps. This is the exact opposite of how Bahorel likes to spend his afternoons, but Feuilly and Jehan are talking about plants, gesturing wildly while they get lost on details that mean nothing to him, Feuilly's arm and leg are warm where they are pressed against him, and he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> "Crests : an unknown menagerie" comes from l'Homme qui Rit, written of course by Victor Hugo


End file.
